


But You Were Always Gold To Me

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, John’s a little shit but he’s a loveable little shit so what’s new, Reluctant Big Brother Mode: Activated, a dash of angst, and a dusting of well-meaning dads, obligatory christmas fic, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: Just before his first Christmas with them, John lets slip he still believes in Santa Claus, so the Van der Linde gang sets out to give him a Proper Christmas.But all Arthur wants for Christmas is some time away from his new shadow. His wriggly, snarky, bite-y new shadow.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan
Comments: 23
Kudos: 124





	But You Were Always Gold To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Has this been done already? 
> 
> (This fic _is_ very much influenced and inspired by gaslight's [Brothers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302507/chapters/43319090), which you should absolutely go and read right now if you haven’t already because it’s amazing and pretty much what I accept as canon for pre-game Arthur & John.)
> 
> Title is from ‘Always Gold’ by Radical Face.

Arthur thinks they would’ve been better off adopting a rabid dog. He really does.

At least with a rabid dog, how things stand is very clear: the dog wants to bite you. You do not want to get bitten. Simple as that. With John Marston, it’s a whole lot more complicated.

The kid’s half-damn feral. Jumpy, snappish, and wildly unpredictable – seemingly desperate for their attention, but snippy whenever they give it to him. That first night – when he’d refused to leave Arthur’s side from the moment he lifted him down from Velvet’s back, mute and wide-eyed, clinging to him like a child clings to his mother’s skirts – turned out to be the exception; probably just the shock of everything that had happened. By the next day, that had clearly worn off – the kid fought them the whole way when he and Susan wrestled him into a bath tub (though his screeching had stopped abruptly once he was in, looking down into the water in wonder. _“It’s warm?”_ And Arthur winced at that – had the kid really never had a hot bath in his life? It was enough to make him forgive the new scratches he was sporting on his forearm). He’d tolerated Susan’s thorough scrubbing with only half-hearted complaining, but then yowled like a wild cat when she tried to cut the tangled mess he called hair.

That was three months ago, and he’s still got the dark mop on his head – though Susan’s threat to cut it off while he sleeps if he doesn’t comb it every now and then seems to have paid off, as it falls in scraggly strands around his face instead of passing for a bird’s nest. Combined with one of Hosea’s old scarves, wrapped up to his nose, nearly all his face is hidden – just his dark eyes are visible, peering suspiciously at Arthur as he finishes stuffing the last of their things into Velvet’s saddlebags before swinging himself up into the saddle.

“All right kid, hop on up,” Arthur reaches out for him, but John backs up a step, arms crossed.

“Why can’t I ride Milly like normal?”

Arthur makes a show of turning around and gazing at the morgan, her back covered in tent cloths and poles, before looking back at John.

“Do we need to get your eyes tested or somethin’?”

John huffs – at least, Arthur thinks he does, it’s hard to tell with the scarf – but relents, reaching up so he can be hoisted up behind Arthur. 

“Don’t see why we have to bring all the tents and stuff if we’re going to stay in a house.” John grumbles. 

“How many times do I gotta tell you? We ain’t stayin’ there forever. Some fella Dutch helped out said we could use it over the winter.” 

“But why do we gotta go there?”

Arthur honestly can’t tell if the kid’s picking up his own way of talking because he’s taken to following Arthur around like a loud, pestering shadow, or if he’s just doing it to annoy him. So he shrugs.

“Hosea got it into his head that he wants a white Christmas – so we’re stayin’ north this year, instead of headin’ south.”

“Why does Hosea like the snow so much? It just makes everything awful! Riding’s awful. Going out to take a piss is awful. Hell, _breathing’s_ awful!”

Arthur sighs, doesn’t deign to answer the kid – but undoes the buttons at his waist. John immediately takes the invitation and burrows his hands under Arthur’s coat. Arthur hisses – he’s wearing three layers underneath, and he can _still_ feel those icy little hands against his ribs.

“Why’re you always so damn cold?” he grumbles.

“I dunno.” John replies simply, now sitting as close behind Arthur as he can so he can shove nearly all his forearms into Arthur’s coat. Little heat leech. 

Arthur knows the answer, of course. Remembers what it was like, being little more than skin and bone, and constantly cold no matter how many layers of newspaper he wrapped around himself. But he’s pretty damn sure he’d put on some puppy fat after being with Dutch and Hosea for three months – whereas John’s still scrawny as a scarecrow, despite Susan and Hosea’s best attempts to feed him up. He makes a mental note to buy the kid some more toffees next time they pass through a town – he knows they’re his favourite, and they have the bonus effect of gluing his yap shut for a few minutes.

“Why do we gotta leave anyway?” John whines, right on cue.

“Because there’s a whole wide world out there, just waiting to be explored!” Dutch pulls up beside them, his new thoroughbred tossing her head. 

“And because pretty soon, the local magistrate is going to catch on that all these land subsidies are being claimed by the same three people, and we’d best be far away when he does,” Hosea calls dryly as he helps Bessie mount up. Dutch tosses him a scowl.

“Where’s your sense of adventure, Hosea?”

“Likely still in bed, like most sensible creatures at this hour,” Susan huffs, pulling herself up onto her own horse. John grunts in agreement, burrowing his face between Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur just rolls his eyes – true, they tended to sleep in longer during the winter months, what with it being past seven already and pallid dawn light only just creeping over the horizon. But secretly, he’s excited - he’d been starting to get that itch, the urge to just saddle up and head out into that wide world and see what it had to offer, never knowing what he’d find. Opportunity? Adventure? New sights, people and places?

Another greasy twelve year old that needs rescuing?

God he hopes not.

“I’m cooooold,” John moans into the back of his coat. “Can we stop and make some hot cocoa?”

“Stop? We ain’t even left yet!”

“Well, time to remedy that. Gang, let’s ride!”

Dutch has taken to calling them the ‘Van der Linde Gang’; he thinks it gives them an air of legitimacy, and that it’s got a nice ring to it to boot. Arthur’s not sure who rolled their eyes harder – Hosea or Susan. But as the pale sunlight creeps over the snowcapped mountains, the Van der Linde Gang – five adults, eight horses (they’re going to have to get a wagon at this rate), and one brat – ride out into the silvery, snow-encrusted wilds. 

After ten minutes, John raises his head from Arthur’s back.

“Are we nearly there y-”

“DON’T even _start.”_

* * *

They’re three hours of riding and fifteen minutes into Dutch’s favourite lecture on the benefits of living outside of society when it happens.

John perks up from where he was slumped against Arthur – he can feel the kid twisting around to look at Dutch.

“But, if we keep movin’ around from place to place like this... how’s Santa Claus gonna find us?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...What?”

“You know. He brings presents down the chimney, right? Guess it’s a good thing we’re gonna stay in a house, dunno how you’d put a chimney in a tent... but how will he know we’ll be there?”

Arthur scoffs.

“Come off it. You don’t still belie-”

John’s still turned back to face Dutch, so he doesn’t see Hosea give Arthur a swift kick in the shin and a warning look.

“...Well...” And it’s a Christmas miracle: Dutch Van der Linde, lost for words.

“Elves.” Bessie supplies.

“Elves?”

“Mm-hm. They do a check on _all_ the children on Christmas Eve, to make sure their address book is up to date.”

She says it with a straight face, but Arthur’s waiting for her expression to crack into a grin, waiting for one of the others to keep running with the joke. But they don’t.

“Are you sure?” John asks from behind him, sounding anxious.

“Why are you worried, John?” Hosea asks lightly. John squirms in the saddle behind him – underneath his coat he can feel the kid scratching at his own fingers, a nervous tic that can see him scratch himself bloody if Arthur doesn’t distract him.

“When... when I was at the orphanage, they said that Santa Claus didn’t visit kids like us.” And hell if the kid ain’t a good little actor, because his voice gets smaller and smaller, and even trembles a little. “And he didn’t visit me after I escaped neither. So, maybe they were right, and it doesn’t matter if he don’t know where we are...”

“Now that’s a load of hogwash,” Dutch declares, nudging Sheba forwards until she’s alongside Velvet, looking across at John with the sort fiery expression he usually reserves for his speeches. “If Santa didn’t visit you – well, that’s just because you didn’t have a proper home to visit! Now you do, with us – he’ll visit this year, mark my words!”

“Really?!” And Arthur has to hold back another scoff. John sounds like... well, he sounds like a little kid at Christmas.

“Absolutely!”

Dutch is grinning like he does when he’s got a new plan in mind – and completely ignoring the fact Arthur’s staring at him like he’s grown a second head.

“And we’ll be sure to leave out some milk and cookies for him to make sure he stops by,” Bessie adds. “This cabin is meant to have a real oven – I’ll teach you how to make them, John. Leave those out, and a carrot for the reindeer, and there’s no chance he’ll miss us!” 

“But you know, if you’re worried, there’s one sure-fire way to make sure he knows where to find you – and what sorts of presents he should bring you!” Hosea chimes in.

“Ooh, what’s that?” John breathes excitedly. Hosea flashes him a grin.

“By writing him a letter, of course!”

Arthur can’t hold back a snort as he feels John wilt behind him.

“There you have it Marston – gotta learn your letters if you want presents from Santa!” he drawls. Maybe that’ll be enough to make the kid drop the act. But instead, he gives a long-suffering sigh.

“If you say so...”

“You know, I’m sure it’s sherry that’s meant to be left out for Santa to drink,” Susan says thoughtfully. Her own favourite tipple. What a coincidence. Arthur tosses her a despairing look – surely she isn’t buying this nonsense too? But she only winks back at him.

“We’ll grab a bottle when we pass through the next town,” Dutch says with another grin. “Start thinking up your Christmas wish-list, John!”

Arthur stares around at the others – waiting for the penny to drop, waiting for the laughter to start. But it doesn’t. Surely they’re not actually falling for the sad orphan act? 

Surely they’re not serious?

* * *

“I’m serious.”

Hosea’s on the verge of giving him one of his I’m Not Angry, I’m Just Disappointed looks, which usually make Arthur feel two feet tall and utterly worthless. But he can only splutter in disbelief.

_“How?!_ You’re a _conman,_ and you’re fallin’ for that sob story?!” 

“Arthur!”

“You _know_ he’s just tryna weasel more presents outta you – give him what he wants and he’s just gonna get even more insufferable.”

“He’s a _child,_ Arthur. A child who’s had horrid start in life, but still believes in the magic of Christmas. We should be protecting that, not trying to stamp it out.”

“You spoil him enough as is!”

Hosea eyes him thoughtfully. 

“Are you jealous?”

“What? No! I’m twenty two for chrissakes!”

“Still, don’t recall us making a big fuss during your first Christmas with us. Do you wish we had?”

“What does that have to- _No._ I don’t care about any of that nonsense.”

“But you did when you were little?”

Arthur scowls, grinding his cigarette into the snow with more force than is probably necessary.

“Hell if I know. I don’t remember if my ma made a big deal about it. And my pa...”

Hosea nods. No more needs to be said about what Lyle Morgan thought of festivities – especially ones that involved giving gifts to his son.

“Well then. Good thing we’re going to make this a proper Christmas isn’t it? It’ll be a first for you _and_ John.”

Arthur grumbles, but Hosea just laughs, slinging an arm around his shoulder.

“Come on Arthur, where’s your Christmas spirit? All I’m asking you to do is distract him for a few minutes while we visit the general store. Is that really so hard?” 

Arthur sighs, hanging his head in defeat. Hosea laughs at him again and pats him on the back before turning to leave – but Arthur stops him, digging some cash out of his satchel.

“Do me a favour and grab some toffees while you’re in there?”

Hosea’s smile is far too knowing, Arthur thinks, as he turns to where John is still talking Bessie’s ear off about all the things he’s going to put in his letter to Santa Claus. Why they all seem to think that _he’s_ the best option when it comes to looking after John is beyond him – he doesn’t have Hosea and Bessie’s patience, or Dutch and Susan’s creativity to keep the kid entertained. He’s just the enforcer, the brute, the attack dog. Good for shooting and punching folks and not much else. Mary had been right.

_Christmas spirit,_ he reminds himself with a sigh, before calling out,

“Hey Marston! You know how to build a snow man?”

* * *

On the upside, when they finally arrive, it looks like something straight of those illustrated Christmas cards that fancy folk with too much spare time on their hands send to each other. The log cabin is nestled into a grove of spruce firs, with a barn off to the side that’s just big enough for all eight horses. With snow covering the roof and surrounding trees, it really does look pretty as a picture – especially once they light the lamps inside. If it weren’t so damn freezing, Arthur might sit outside to draw it.

On the downside, it’s only got three rooms – and he’s sharing with the brat.

“Ugh, I gotta share with _you?_ On Christmas?!”

“Feelin’s mutual, kid.”

And he really doesn’t understand why the boy looks so _hurt._ Changeable as the damn winds, he is.

When he opens their allocated bedroom door, and sees there’s only one bed, Arthur takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose, then turns around.

“Where’re you goin’?” 

“To get my bedroll. You can have the bed.”

“What?! _Why?”_

“You was just complainin’ about havin’ to share!”

“Yeah, but this thing’s massive!”

To prove his point, John takes a running jump onto the bed, splaying his limbs out like the dried starfish Arthur saw at a market once.

“It really ain’t...” Arthur says dubiously. Perhaps it would have been fine, sharing with another, normal person. But Arthur knows from experience that John flails like a startled cat even when he’s _asleep,_ and he’s got the bruises to prove it.

“It’s way bigger than your cot, and we both fit on that!”

The first night John woke up screaming, Arthur had pointed his revolver at him. Which, probably hadn’t helped. But it had scared the shit out of him. For a second, he’d stared down the barrel, blinking in sleep-addled confusion and panic. For another second, he was pissed off – here he was, having to share his tent with the ‘little brother’ that Dutch had foisted upon him, literally, and the damn kid was making a racket in the middle of the goddamn night. But the anger quickly gave way to concern as he noted the wide eyes, the too-quick, uneven breaths, the sheet-white face – making the dark line of bruising from the noose even starker. 

So over the next few weeks, Arthur tried all the things that Hosea and Dutch, and later Bessie and Susan, had done for him when nightmares of cold grey eyes under a dark gambler’s hat got too much. He read to him. He made him tea with mint or cinnamon and honey and milk if they had it. He took him out to lay on the grass and got him to pick out the constellations he recognised, and told him stories about how they got their names. He _tried_ talking to John about his nightmares – but Arthur’s never been good with words. So eventually, he resorted to what had worked best for him, and started simply tucking John up against himself to sleep. They never mention it during the day – John goes back to being a pain the ass, Arthur goes back to doing his best to ignore him. But some nights, Arthur is roused by a small hand on his shoulder – he doesn’t even bother opening his eyes anymore, he just lifts the blanket. The kid doesn’t get any nightmares those nights. But he _does_ still dream a lot – as evidenced by his nonsensical mumblings about a whole range of topics, and by the elbows and knees that periodically smack into Arthur’s chest and stomach (or lower, on a few particularly painful occasions). 

So John’s right – technically, they’ll fit. But John is _not_ the person he thought he’d be sharing his bed with this time last year, and he may or may not be a little sour about it.

“Oh, I should add that to my list for Santa! A proper cot! Or maybe – do you think he’d bring me an actual bed?”

Arthur eyes the kid.

“Do you _seriously_ believe-”

He catches himself. Thinks about what Hosea said. Thinks about being small, and cold, and alone, and how the idea of some jolly fella showing up to give you presents – the idea of someone giving a shit about you at all – would have been real nice ten years ago. And really, who was he to say what was proper when it came to Christmas? It’s not like he has a frame of reference.

“Do you seriously believe a cot’s gonna fit down the chimney?”

“...Shit. Didn’t think of that.”

“Language!” Arthur scolds on Susan’s behalf as he starts peeling off layers. Ten minutes later they’re both in bed, and John’s _still_ bemoaning all the things he’s going to have to cross off his list because they’re too big for flue-based delivery methods.

“Go to sleep, John.” Arthur mumbles tiredly. He’s already starting to regret not going and getting his bedroll. 

“...Wait, Santa comes down the chimney too right? To get the sherry and cookies?”

“Sure.” He pointedly doesn’t open his eyes, hoping the kid will take the hint. But of course he doesn’t.

“Well then how does _he_ fit down the chimney? How come big presents can’t fit too?”

“Dunno. You’ll have to ask Bessie in the morning. Now go to sleep.”

“Guess it means a new saddle is off the list too...”

“I guess so. _Good night,_ John.” Maybe sleeping with the horses was a better option after all...

“What about my own rifle? You think that’d fit? Or would it get stuck in the grate?”

And the image of little Johnny Marston – twelve years old but still easily passing for nine or ten – with a rifle in his hands, with a weapon made to _kill,_ twists something in Arthur’s stomach horribly.

“Will you _shut up_ and go to sleep!” he snaps. John’s mouth shuts with an audible click.

It’s a pain when the kid’s being a chatterbox. But it’s worse when he’s completely silent.

“...John?” he tries after the silence stretches on. “Kid, look, I’m sorry...”

But John doesn’t reply, and his breathing’s so quiet Arthur can’t tell if he’s even still awake. He half reaches out to him, thinks better of it, rolls away with a sigh. And he’s exhausted, after nearly a week of riding, and had fully expected to pass out for ten hours straight.

But instead, he lays there, guilt gnawing at him, as the mantelpiece clock out in the living area chimes away the hours of the night.

* * *

“Mr. S. Claus, The North Pole, Arctic Circle.”

It’s a good job it ain’t real, because Arthur can barely discern the address from John’s chicken-scratch handwriting. But there’s a postage stamp on the envelope and everything. 

“Don’t you dare read it!” John snaps at him, still pouting over not being allowed to tag along. Arthur’s being dispatched to the closest town – another full day’s ride round-trip – to collect the ingredients for gingerbread cookies and to post John’s ‘letter’ to Santa Claus. Not that he’s complaining – the weather’s good, the skies crisp and clear, and the prospect of a day with just him, Velvet, and the sparkling white wilderness seems mighty fine.

“What do you actually want me to do with this?” he mutters to Hosea while John’s distracted.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, there ain’t no point in posting it. So what do you want me to do? Toss it? Keep it to open on his twenty-first?”

Assuming the kid doesn’t wander off a cliff or walk into an oncoming train before then. Arthur wouldn’t put it past him – head full of clouds, that one. Or rocks.

“I want you to post it! You never know.” Hosea gives him a wink, before calling John over so they can go ‘Christmas tree hunting’.

By the time Arthur returns in the evening, they’re in the finishing stages of decorating a small spruce sapling, using whatever shiny buttons and colourful scraps of fabric Susan’s found to make decorations – and Arthur has to scoff at one of Dutch’s spurs tied to the top to make a ‘star’.

“Seems like an awful lot of fuss for just one day,” he grumbles as they watch John direct Hosea and Dutch on where to put decorations in the higher branches. 

“At least he’s having fun,” Susan murmurs back, “and if he learned how to sew a button while we were at it – well, I consider that time well spent!”

Arthur snorts – trust Susan Grimshaw to trick the kid into learning chores. But, he has to admit, the tree doesn’t look half bad, especially in the firelight. And by the same time the next day – with extra decorations adorning the room made from the newspaper he’d brought back, and the whole house smelling like gingerbread cookies – Arthur’s actually beginning to feel a little festive. He could get behind this Christmas thing, he decides, leaning back in his seat as they listen to John fumble his way through the start of _A Christmas Carol_ with Dutch’s help. The kid’s actually trying, instead of whining about how boring reading is – Bessie’s put the fear of the Naughty List into him, and he’s been almost _pleasant_ for the past couple of days.

Arthur sips his whiskey and relaxes, wondering if this peace and goodwill will last.

* * *

It doesn’t.

“All right you little weasel, where’d you hide it?”

“Whut?”

“Don’t play dumb with me boy. Where’s my sock?”

“I ain’t touched your smelly socks!”

“So it up and walked off on it’s own did it?”

“Hell if I know!”

_“Don’t,_ kid. They was a gift from Bessie. Now where’d you put it?”

“I _didn’t._ ‘Sides, you got plenty of socks!”

_“Sure,_ but I only got one pair of merino ones – and I ain’t walkin’ around with one cold foot like a damn fool. Now give it here!”

_“Language._ You wanna end up on Santa’s naughty list?”

“Sure, I’ll join you – seeing as you’ll be on there for thievin’!”

“I AIN’T GOT YOUR SOCK YOU BIG JERK!”

“Heh! Okay kid, let’s pretend that worked – once you’d got me on the ground, what you plannin’ on doing nex- Ow! Sunova... Hoseaaaa! He bit me again!”

* * *

To hell with Christmas spirit and festive cheer. Both can go hang.

Arthur stomps out of the cabin, left foot immediately chilled even through his boot and three cotton socks he’s wearing because he _is_ a fool, fully intending to tack up Velvet and take her out for a long run. Maybe out to the frozen lake they’d seen on the way here, maybe higher up the mountains to see if he can spot the glacier that runs down the opposing ridgeline. He needs some time _away._

He’s about to wrench the barn doors open – and has to stagger backwards as Dutch ducks out of them.

“Ah! Arthur my boy, just the man I needed. Got a job for you.”

“What kind?” Arthur grins in relief. Even better if they’re going to run a job – it’ll take his mind off how much he wants to strangle John.

“Smuggling,” Dutch leans in conspiratorially, as if he’s planning some mighty heist. “Need you to distract the boy while we shift these.” He steps aside, gesturing behind him – the others are all in there, fussing about with rolls of brown paper and bundles of what must be presents from ‘Santa’.

“So, here’s the plan – we’ll take these around back, you bring the kid out the front, tell him you’re gonna make another snowman or something, and then-”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“That thievin’ little raccoon just ate the _entire_ box of chocolates I was gonna give Susan for Christmas!” he hisses. They was fancy French liqueur ones too – Arthur bought them in the last city they rode past, and had been carefully keeping them hidden for weeks. Then the kid had the _nerve_ to ask him to make him some tea because he had a stomachache; so it was go for a ride, or throttle the little wretch. 

“Come on Arthur, he’s just a child. Besides, it’s Christmas!” Dutch declares jovially, slapping him on the back, and Arthur is getting heartily sick of hearing those two phrases.

“Bah humbug,” he growls, “I don’t care. Someone else can play babysitter for a change.”

“Oh, quit being so miserable. Come on, just keep him busy for half an hour while we get these wrapped.”

“Half an hour?! How much crap did you buy the brat?!”

_“Arthur.”_

And Arthur tries, he really does – but he’s never been able to say no to Dutch, especially when he’s giving him That Glare.

_“...Fine,”_ he sighs.

“Good man! Now cheer up – it’s Christmas Eve! Only one more sleep until Santa Claus gets here!”

Arthur makes some unintelligible noise of frustration as Dutch’s laughter follows him back onto the porch and into the house. 

He sighs, dragging his feet as he makes his way to their room, thinks about this time last year. This time last year, they’d been holed up in some drafty little cabin that had definitely seen better days, but it hadn’t mattered – it was like there was a warmth that had settled deep in his chest from the moment Mary had said ‘yes’ on that balmy summer’s evening, throwing herself into his arms. This time last year, he’d been engaged to the most beautiful girl in the world. This time last year, he’d been planning all the things they could do together the moment she came of age, and he could whisk her away from her jealous, bigoted family, give her the freedom she needed, she _deserved._ This time last year, he thought it was _her_ he’d be spending his nights with, talking about all their hopes, their dreams, their fears, instead of having to pour them into his journal. 

This time last year, he didn’t have a whiny twelve year old following him around, rifling through his things, and generally being a dedicated nuisance. This time last year, he didn’t have that same twelve year old looking at him sometimes like he put the stars in the sky. This time last year, he didn’t realise that he was a miserable bastard, with no idea of what a ‘proper Christmas’ entailed. This time last year, he wasn’t so acutely aware of just how terrible a role model he was.

This time last year, he had two warm socks.

“All right kid, Dutch wants us to make him a-”

He freezes.

John’s sitting on the bed, looking at him like a startled rabbit. And there, opened in his lap, is Arthur’s journal.

“I was just looking at the pictures,” he stammers, but Arthur barely hears him.

“You dirty little _thief,”_ he snarls, crossing to the bed in one stride and ripping the journal away.

“I’m sorry! I just wanted to see-”

“Christ, you got ANY respect for other people’s belongings? For privacy?!”

“I wouldn’t’ve looked if you’d just _show_ me, but you never do! You just sit there, scrawling away in that stupid book and ignoring me no matter what I do to try and cheer you up! Made me wonder what the hell you were scribbling about all the time!” God, the kid actually has the gall to be mad at _him._

“You understand what the word ‘privacy’ means, boy?” he growls. Is distantly aware that he’s using the same voice he uses when Dutch wants him to intimidate someone. Is distantly aware that John’s rapidly getting that same look as those he’s sent to threaten – a thin layer of defiance rapidly cracking into naked fear. Distantly hates himself for it. But he’s far too angry to care.

“I said I’m sorry, okay? What more do you want?!”

“What do I want? I _want_ you to quit going through my things! I _want_ ten minutes to myself without having to play babysitter to a little thief!”

“I ain’t a thief!”

“No? What was those homesteaders hanging you for then? Maybe we should’ve just let them!”

Distantly, he regrets the words even as he says them. John’s mouth opens and shuts for a moment, before he bolts from the room, and Arthur hears him crash out the front door. 

_Pulled off that job then,_ he thinks bitterly – John’s distracted all right. And if Dutch doesn’t like his methods, well, next time he can do it himself. 

He lets the anger stew for a while as he smooths the pages of his journal – it’s useful for quashing down the guilt.

Right up until he hears rapid hoofbeats leaving the clearing outside.

“Oh for...”

He runs out – after pausing on the porch because _of course_ the little idiot hasn’t taken his coat with him (well, it’s Arthur’s old coat, and it comes past the boy’s knees, but still.) The barn door’s open, and sure enough, Milly’s gone, along with John’s saddle. Cursing all the while – at John, at the weather, but mostly at himself – Arthur tacks up Velvet and spurs her out into the snow.

* * *

They’d come over the brow of a hill, congratulating themselves over a job well done, when Dutch had paused, looking down into the valley below them. There was a crowd of people standing around a tree. Dutch didn’t even say anything – just dug his heels into Caesar, leaving him and Hosea scrambling to catch up. Arthur still didn’t quite realise what was going on until, ahead of him, Dutch drew his pistol and fired a single shot. Then it was mayhem – bullets flying from both sides. Arthur saw Dutch dismount, rode in to cover him, and ended up with Dutch tossing a little boy into his lap, bullet-cut noose still dangling around his throat like some macabre necklace, and telling him to get out of there and keep the boy safe. He knew, really, it was because out of Velvet, Lucky Penny, and dear old Caesar, Velvet was by far the fastest. But in that moment, he’d made Arthur responsible for the kid – a feeling he hadn’t been able to shuck in the three months afterwards, despite all his misgivings. And now he’s failed in that responsibility. Failed the others, who trusted him to keep the child safe.

Failed John.

An hour later, the anger has fully given way to guilt, and is rapidly morphing into panic. He’s trying his best to follow Milly’s hoofprints, but icy patches on the roads make them hard to see, and a few times he’s had to double back just to make sure he is following the right trail. And he doesn’t like the look of the clouds forming in the distance – if it starts snowing, he’ll lose the trail completely, and the kid’ll surely freeze to death. He urges Velvet to go even faster, her hoofbeats and huffed breathing the only sound in the snow-blanketed landscape.

They’re almost at the frozen lake, he thinks, when suddenly the trail of hoofprints veers off the road into deeper snow. He can’t see any reason for John to leave the road, but he nudges Velvet after the tracks – hopefully her longer legs will help them gain ground on Milly. And sure enough, they emerge from a copse of trees, and there’s the little morgan, half-heartedly nibbling at a frozen bush. But John’s not with her. Arthur dismounts, drawing his rifle, scans about until he finds small boot prints and hurries after them, calling for John and cursing when the trail disappears in the snowed-over underbrush. 

Hosea once told him that in the final stages of hypothermia, victims lose all reason and complain of overheating. That they wander from their tents, shedding their clothes in an effort to cool down. He refuses to pay attention to the part of his brain that’s wondering what he’ll say to Dutch and Hosea if all he finds is a cold little body with a mop of dark hair.

All of a sudden something barrels into his side, and Arthur nearly shoots John in the face.

“Jesus _Christ_ kid!”

“Keep it down!” John hisses. Arthur blinks at him in bewilderment. John looks moderately annoyed, and his cheeks and nose are red with cold, but otherwise he looks fine. All carefully thought-through apologies die on his lips, replaced by confusion. 

_“Why?!”_

“Sshh! Come see!”

“Come see- no! We’re going back, right now, before the others start to worry! You hear me? Marston!” But he’s already scurried off, annoyingly nimble, while Arthur has to plod along behind him, sinking to the tops of his boots in the snow. 

Finally, he catches up with John where he’s crouching low at the bottom of a woody hillock. He gestures for Arthur to be quiet, and follow him up. 

“At least put your damn jacket on first!” he hisses. John rolls his eyes but lets Arthur wrestle him into the too-big coat, before creeping up the hill, Arthur following behind, nonplussed. When the reach the top, John stops, and turns back to him.

“What are they?” he asks, pointing down below them.

And Arthur can barely stop himself from spluttering in outrage.

“You dragged me through the snow just to look at some deer?!”

“Don’t look like no deer I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur looks at the small herd in the clearing below them again – really _looks_ – and pauses. The kid’s right – they’re too big to be white tails, too small to be elk, but the antlers on their heads clearly mark them as adults. And what’re they doing wandering around with antlers at this time of year anyway?

“Arthur...”

“Shush, kid.” Arthur mutters, still trying to puzzle it out.

“Arthur, there’s eight of ‘em.”

Arthur blinks. Counts. Feels goosebumps prickle on the back of his neck, because the kid’s right.

“Are they really reindeer?”

“Can’t be, caribou don’t come this far south.”

“Then what are they?”

“I... I dunno.”

They watch the deer mill about for a while. And it’s all a bit too uncanny for Arthur’s liking – they’re not snuffling about for food, but they don’t seem spooked either. They just seem to be standing around... waiting. But John seems happy enough to watch them, so Arthur’s happy to wait, trying to memorise them to sketch later. He silently resolves to show John the resulting drawings, whatever they look like. 

Then the snowflakes start to fall.

“Shit, we better head back, kid.”

They creep back towards the horses, who luckily haven’t wandered far. Arthur loops his lasso around Milly and Velvet’s saddlehorns, just to be safe – and after a glance, loops his scarf around John’s neck and head. He tries to get him to ride with him, but the boy’s not wrong when he points out it’ll be easier for Velvet to hurry through the snowdrifts if she doesn’t have to carry two. They head back as fast as they can, as the snow starts coming down thicker and the light starts to fade. Luckily, Hosea had taught him early on to always note landmarks – a strange looking tree, a lonesome rock, an abandoned building, that sort of thing – to be used as markers if he ever lost his way. They’d passed the lightning-struck tree a while back, so if they carried on this path – and god Arthur hopes they _are_ still on the path, he thinks they are – then they should be coming up to the two boulders soon... there!

“All right back there, Marston?”

“Y- yeah.” But Arthur doesn’t like how he can hear the kid’s teeth chatter when he speaks.

From here, he knows his way, and encourages the horses into a canter, their breath coming in great steaming clouds, his own breath freezing in his lungs. Finally, the lights of the cabin come into view. As they get closer, Arthur can see the others rushing about – Sheba and Lucky Penny are out front and tacked up, and Hosea is just mounting up when he spots them.

Arthur was wrong. They aren’t worried. They’re _frantic._

“Where the HELL have you boys been?” Dutch bellows, furious.

Arthur doesn’t miss the way the kid recoils, letting his hair hang down and hide his face. Another anxious habit of his. Not for the first time, Arthur wonders if that’s why he refuses to let them cut it.

“I- I-”

“You told me to entertain John. So I did,” he says bluntly. Doesn’t miss how John’s head snaps up, staring at him in surprise.

“By going out in this weather? The hell were you thinking Arthur? You’re supposed to be the responsible one, for chrissakes!” Hosea scolds, and he’s _definitely angry,_ not disappointed. But Arthur takes their ire, standing grimly next to Velvet as Dutch and Hosea berate him in turns – he can see John over their shoulders, being fussed over and ushered inside by Susan and Bessie. Finally, since he’s clearly feeling foolhardy, Dutch decrees that _he_ gets to stay out and un-tack all the horses. 

By the time he’s removed all the tack, rubbed them down with dry straw, put blankets on them, and fed them lots of sugar lumps for all the trouble, it’s well into the night. He trudges inside to find the rest have already gone to bed – though someone, probably Bessie bless her, has left out a plate of bread and cheese for him. When he finally gets into their room, the lamp’s still on low, and John’s sitting waiting for him.

“I told them I was real cold, so they heated up the bed warmers for me. I put them on your side so it’ll be nice and warm,” he says hurriedly.

“Uh... thanks, kid,” Arthur mumbles, not sure where the earnestness has come from.

Sure enough, it’s real nice and toasty under the covers once he’s removed the pans, and he gratefully buries himself under the blankets after turning out the lamp completely. He lays there, listening to the wind and the odd chunk of snow falling off the roof. He can tell John’s not asleep. Finally the kid rolls over to face him.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Take the hit for me?”

Arthur scoffs.

“Ain’t no one got hit, kid.”

“You _know_ what I mean.” John sounds annoyed, but in the gloom he can see his eyes are wide, confused.

“Well, it was my fault we were out-”

“Nuh-uh! I’m the one that ran away!”

“Because _I_ yelled at you.” He sighs. “And I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“I’m sorry too, for reading your letter.” 

Arthur snorts.

“Thought you said you was just looking at the pictures?”

He feels John tense beside him, so he just sighs.

“Hey, ‘least your reading’s getting better.”

There’s quiet for a moment, before John asks, tentatively,

“So... who’s El-izza?” 

Arthur rolls his eyes.

“It’s ‘Eliza’. She’s a girl I met - waitress at the saloon back in Albaston.”

“What do you think she wants to talk with you about? Sounded important.”

“No idea. But the plan is to swing back that way in the spring – I’ll head over and see what she wants then.”

“Oh.”

They lay in silence for a few moments, before John asks, even more hesitantly,

“...Is she nice?”

“Sure, she was nice. Wicked sense of humour. Why?”

“So... she’s not going to make you sad? Like that Mary girl did?”

And Arthur’s heart clenches at hearing Mary’s name – but he peers at the kid. He looks genuinely concerned. And Arthur can’t help but smile.

“Nah. You don’t need to worry about that. Thanks, though.”

“Okay.”

They lapse into silence – outside their door, the mantelpiece clock strikes twelve. But as the chiming dies down, Arthur notices a faint trembling through the mattress. After a beat, he realises John’s shivering. Rolling his eyes, he shifts onto his side and slings an arm over the kid. John immediately wriggles closer, snuggling up to his chest, and Arthur just huffs, unable to help smiling again.

“Merry Christmas, Arthur,” John mumbles sleepily.

“Merry Christmas, John,” he murmurs back.

* * *

“HE’S BEEN! HE’S BEEN! HE GOT MY LETTER!”

Arthur drags himself out of bed at the ecstatic shouts to find everyone in the living area. There’s an old pillowcase hanging off one corner of the fireplace, which John is delightedly rummaging through. And on the other corner, is his damn sock.

Arthur flashes him a guilty look, but the boy’s too preoccupied with his presents from ‘Santa’. He’s got a new coat that actually fits, and a scarf and mittens, and lots of chocolate and candy, and some marbles. Arthur’s sock is stuffed with his own chocolate bars and some nice new pencils.

“Looks like Santa brought gifts for _both_ children in this house!” Dutch crows, while Hosea sidles up to Arthur.

“Couldn’t fit it in your sock, but Merry Christmas,” he murmurs, pressing something wrapped in brown paper into Arthur’s hands. He unwraps it, and it’s a lovely new journal, properly bound with a leather cover and everything. Arthur flashes him a grin.

“Think you’re too skinny to be Santa Claus – you’re probably old enough though!” he quips, earning himself a dig in the ribs.

After seeing to the horses and a brief but merciless snowball fight (Arthur knew Bessie had good aim but _God),_ they set about making lunch. And venison pie, potatoes and tinned vegetables probably isn’t the most traditional of Christmas meals, but it’s not half bad smothered in the cranberry jelly Bessie’s brought with her. And with a flourish, Dutch reveals he’s bought them a real Christmas cake for dessert. John eats all the icing on his piece but then turns his nose up at all the dried fruit, so Arthur swaps him for the icing on his own slice.

Warm, over-full and content, they settle in the main room for the evening – John playing with his new marbles, Hosea reading, Dutch snoozing, and the ladies chatting over their new skeins of yarn – Bessie’s promised to make Arthur some more wool socks after hearing about the debacle of the missing one. Arthur himself dozes by the fire until Hosea finally nudges him to go to bed.

He’s just settled when John tramps in, arms full of his Christmas spoils. He dumps them to the side, quickly strips down to his union suit and dives under the covers, burrowing into Arthur’s side. Arthur obligingly wraps an arm around him as the kid lets out a contented sigh.

“Best. Christmas. _Ever.”_ He enthuses.

“Same here. Glad you enjoyed it,” Arthur murmurs, eyes already closed. But then John hums thoughtfully.

“Not sure if I’m going to be able to do all that again next year though.”

“Do what?”

“Y’know, the whole Santa thing. Pretendin’ to get excited and all.”

Arthur opens his eyes, blinks once at the ceiling. Then sits upright, staring at John, feeling a strange mixture of triumph and dismay.

“I _knew_ it!” 

But John holds his hands up in a placating gesture as he sits up too.

“No, no, I weren’t doin’ it just because I wanted more presents, honest! It’s just... a few nights before we started riding up here, I heard Bessie and Hosea talkin’ bout how they never got to do the whole Santa thing, and it was kind of a shame we were both too old when they found us. So I figured... I could pretend, right? And they seemed to really enjoy it! Even Dutch and Susan looked like they was having fun – sneaking the presents around, getting me to make a list and everything...” 

Arthur stares at him. And here he was, convinced that the kid’s just a selfish little brat. A different kind of guilt creeps in, and he feels like he ought to apologise.

“Not sure if I can keep it up for next year though...” John says, chewing his lip. So Arthur huffs a laugh, lays back down.

“I’ll help you, so you don’t have to do it all again,” he offers, smiling at the thought. Little bastard had known all along...

“Really?!”

“Sure.”

“Oh, great, thanks! Okay, here goes.”

“Wait, what are you-”

“WHAT DO YOU _MEAN_ HE’S NOT REAL?!”

The cry rings out through the house – a cry of anguish and heartbreak. A cry that’s totally at odds with the shit-eating grin on John’s face.

Arthur stares at John, aghast, for a single second.

“ARTHUR!” 

There’s a collective, angry shout from the others – but whatever other chastisements they have are lost to Arthur’s own shouts (“We had a whole _YEAR_ you little bastard!”) as he chases John around the house, John shrieking with laughter all the while.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Santa’s eight reindeer made their first appearance in the 1823 poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” (aka Twas the Night Before Christmas), but Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer didn’t come about until 1939. So I guess Santa just got lost in foggy weather for a hundred years or so :p
> 
> Anyway, it’s the 25th here in NZ, so Merry Christmas and/or Happy Holidays, and as always, thanks for reading <3


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